


Blue Neighborhood

by Kitkatmadina



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AH - Freeform, AU, Abuse, Abusive Parents, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Based On a Troye Sivan Song, Best Friends, Drama, Drug Use, Loss of Parent(s), Louis in Denial, M/M, Niall is a Good Friend, Not Fluff, Physical Abuse, Puppy Harry, Sex, Triggers, alcoholic mark, broken!louis, photographer!harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-03 23:21:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5310959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitkatmadina/pseuds/Kitkatmadina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis and Harry have been best friends since children. The first has been abandoned by his mother and raised by a growing alcoholic. The second has never known anything but love and security. And somehow, they were the perfect pair... of friends, of course. That is, until feelings are shared and everything changes. </p><p>Or... the one where Harry loves Louis, and Louis is definitely straight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wild 1

**Author's Note:**

> See end for more notes!
> 
> Part One: Wild
> 
> From when everything is okay to when everything isn't.

It was midday, and five people were spending their noon enjoying a lunch outside. They were on a hill, not too far from town, that overlooked the ocean. It was the middle of summer, and for once the weather was pristine, albeit a little chilly. Nevertheless, they were dressed in layers and sat in relaxation as the white clouds passed over them in a crisp blue sky.

There were two boys on the hill. They ran around the grass, coughing up laughter in the intensity of their child-like humour, with grins so wide and for hardly any plausible purpose. Behind them, looking ahead, were their parents – for the younger boy, his mother and father were sitting on a plaid picnic blanket with their eyes closed and facial features relaxed to the sea breeze, and for the older boy, his father slouched into a lawn chair with a cold beer in his hand and a laconic stare. The boys continued to play their game of make believe.

“And she isn’t coming back?” The question from the mother’s mouth appeared in the air so suddenly; none of them were prepared. There was a pleasantry to her voice – soft and nurturing and featherlike – that it flowed harmoniously to the wind. But, there was no voice so soft as to cushion the pain that the lone father felt upon her words.

“No,” he replied. He closed his eyes and took another sip of his beer. “She took Lottie and left without a word.” He held the bottle at the base and spun the contents – empty. Almost mechanically, he placed the bottle down beside him and reached into the cooler for another bottle. There was a fizzy sound as he opened the sealed cap with his bare hands; there was no sign of pain from the act.

“How are you going to tell Louis?” the mother continued, studying him and his actions very carefully.

“Anne…” her husband said, switching between his friend and his wife to interpret the uncomfortable tension between the two. Anne ignored him and continued to stare at the other man very intently. She could not help her own curiosity, nor could she help her worry.

Yet, the man raised a hand to calm down her husband. “It is okay, Des,” the man replied. He looked the woman in the eyes; she kept in mind blackness that she saw… the cold and tired feeling she felt by staring at them for maybe a little too long. “I don’t know,” he continues with a solemn tone, “How do you tell your son that his own mother doesn’t want him? I understand if she doesn’t want me, but him? He’s only a boy.” He looked out towards his son, who was watching as the younger boy, Harry, try and fail to perform a cartwheel.

“It’ll be alright, Mark,” Des said. “Look at him now. He’ll be fine. “

The boys couldn’t hear the conversations of their parents so far into their own world. Now, they were lying like starfish on the dewy grass, staring at the sky. Louis, the older boy, was tired. His belly moved up and down with every heavy breath; a beautiful symptom of youthful energy. The younger boy, Harry, on the other hand, was still excited. He was kicking his legs in the air and making incoherent sounds and poking Louis’s side. “Come on,” Harry whined.

“Geez, Haz, let me catch my breath!” Louis said.

“Why are you so tired anyway?” Harry wondered curiously.

“When you get to be as old as me,” Louis stated matter-of-factly, “you’ll understand.”

“ _Lou_ , you’re only two years older than me. You aren’t that old!” Harry laughed innocently. “Now, come _on!”_

Louis laughed and reluctantly got up. “Okay, Hazza, you got me. What do you want to do?”

Harry’s blue eyes shined under the light of the clear sky, and he gave his friend a toothy grin. “Everything.”


	2. Wild 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part One (continued)
> 
> From when everything is good to when everything isn't. 
> 
> This time, with swings, tea, forts, and pillow fights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again. Disclaimer. Not from the UK. Not affiliated with 1D or Troye Sivan. The status of the tags to this novel are subject to change.

_Ten Years Later_

There was a buzz.

Louis heard the noise, but figured he was a little too busy to even remotely care, and he ignored it.

Then, there was another buzz.

Eleanor Caldor, who happened to be under Louis, made a distinct sound against his lips, though he didn’t know exactly how to interpret it and decided to do nothing.

Suddenly, there was a long vibration, followed by another long vibration, followed by the sound of his phone falling onto the hardwood floor. Finally, Louis broke away from Eleanor with an annoyed look on his face as he went to pick up the damned thing. He checked the screen: “Anne”, it read in big white letters. He looked at the clock on his coffee table, which read 10:00 P.M. Why would Anne be calling so late? Though Eleanor was giving him an impatient look – and to be fair, she _was_ laying on her parents’ couch half-naked while he was on his phone – Louis knew that he’d better answer it. He gave her an apologetic look, then pressed the little green button on the screen. “Aye up?”

“Louis? Oh, thank God. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you!” Anne said frantically through the other line.

“Yeah? What’s wrong?”

“It’s Harry,” she said. “It’s late, and he hasn’t come home, and he’s not answering my texts or my calls. I’m worried, Louis.”

Louis let out a breath. “Okay. Okay, I’ll go look for him.”

At this point, Eleanor looked as though she would burst from frustration. Her face was so red and her eyes were so unforgiving; it was all Louis could do to mouth apologies to her as Mrs. Styles graced him with gratitude and well-wishing for far too long. It wasn’t as though he had a choice; the woman helped raise him and was basically a mother to him. Also, it was _Harry_. _His_ Harry. His best friend, his fellow make-believer, his partner is pseudo crime. And of course Louis knew where Harry had run off too; they were all of those things to each other for a reason. But, if Harry had run off _period_ then that meant something was wrong, and Louis needed to be there to help him through it. “Okay, Anne. Don’t worry. I’ll find him; I’ll bring ‘im home.” Louis clicked the red button on the screen, inhaled deeply, and exhaled as he sank himself into the back of the couch. There is a silence for a moment. Then, Louis looks at Eleanor with genuine eyes and repeats the mantra he had been mouthing just seconds before. “El, I’m so sorry.”

She scoffed. “You’re only sorry because you know you won’t get lucky after this.”

Louis furrowed his brows. “Come on, love. You know that’s not true. Just… she’s like a mother to me, ya know? I hate to see her panic like that.” Eleanor huffed, but Louis could see that he had gotten through to her. His face relaxed and he smiled. “Good. I’ll see you later?”

Eleanor scrunched her face in mock disgust, shaking her head as Louis bent down to kiss her forehead. Within moments, Louis was out of her house and into the chilling night time air of England during November. It was a long walk from El’s house to Harry’s favourite little hideaway. Louis decided to text the little twat and possibly get him to say what was going on. Within minutes, Harry replied, _I’m alright._

_Why aren’t you answering you mother, Harold_? Louis texted back.

_Athazagoraphobia is the irrational fear of being forgotten._ That was his reply. What the bloody hell?

_And who would forget you, Haz?_ There was no reply after that. Luckily, Louis didn’t have much farther to go. He couldn’t help but wonder what was going on in Harry’s mind.

In the middle of nowhere, there was a set of swings. It was a ridiculously pathetic set up of three metal bars – two vertical rods connected by the third at the top – connecting to two rubber seats with two pairs of industrial chains. The swing set itself wasn’t that bad, if it weren’t for the unevenness of the two tall bars or the rust that kept one swing from gliding smoothly and the other from gliding without an obnoxious _croak_. The grass around the thing was almost dead, in contrast to the perfect meadow that surrounded the area. Louis made his way to the swing set, and under the equally pathetic street light that lit a tiny circle overhead, he saw a short, dark figure resting against one of the verticals. Louis let out a breath of relief as he made his way to the figure; he hadn’t realised how worried he had been – irrational, he knew, since Louis had known where Harry had been. “Hazza, what are you doing out here?” His voice, however, didn’t give away any ounce of his worry; instead, it sounded reprimanding… condemning. In the darkness, Harry’s lips formed a frown.

He stepped into the dim spotlight, and before Louis could say anything, Harry tossed something in the air, and Louis struggled to catch it. It was a blue ribbon with gold letters printed downward. _1 st place. _ “What’s this for?” Louis smirked. “Best bloke of the year? Oh, Harold, I’m honoured!” Louis joked, but the fun was hesitant. He was still unable to read Harry, which was weird. His Harold was an open book to him, but now it was as though his favourite novel had morphed into one of those toy diaries for little girls, with the keys that they lose in a day – and Louis had lost the key. It was a weird feeling; he didn’t like it, he didn’t approve.

“It’s not for you,” Harry whispered; he sounded _really_ bummed. His head slightly hung on his shoulders as he moved to sit on the swing that couldn’t move. He watched his feet as the rim of his shoes dug into the already dead grass.

“A’ight, Harry, what’s going on? You’re being more cryptic than normal, which is saying a lot since you are the shadiest little sixteen year old in the world. In a good way, in a clever way, but still.” Louis looked at his friend; his brows were furrowed and raised in frustration and his mouth pressed together in a thin line.

“I didn’t tell you,” he started. Then he sighed. “I didn’t tell you, but I submitted some of my photos to this competition in town. There was a gallery walk tonight showcasing the top submissions. I was surprised; my photos got in.” What? Why hadn’t Harry told him? Louis was elated with pride for his best friend, but he wasn’t going to lie; it hurt that he hadn’t told him. He didn’t say anything, and instead let Harry continue. “Well, I had told my mum, and you know her. She got so happy. She told me all her plans – we would get dinner and celebrate and they would be there and be proud of me. But Gemma bailed to study for her exams – understandable. The old man is still at work; he’s been workin’ later and later it seems. And mum? She hasn’t said a word. She wasn’t even there.”

“Is that why you think you’ve been forgotten? You haven’t, Haz. Your mother was freaking out when you didn’t come home? How long have you been out here, anyway? It’s dangerous to be alone this late at night, and dammit, Harry, it’s freezing. You don’t even have a coat.” Upon the realisation, Louis unzipped his jumper and tossed it to Harry, feeling the cold air touch his skin through the sleeves.

Harry caught it instinctively; his eyes widened for a moment, and then his face softened. “You… you don’t have to do that, Lou.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Louis said finally. “Though, do you want to tell me why I didn’t know about this contest?”

Harry’s face tensed. “I was going to tell you when I learned that my photos got selected.”

“And? Why didn’t you?”

“ _Harry_.”

“Okay! Fine. It’s because of El. You’ve… you’ve liked her for a while and tonight was your big date with her. I didn’t want to ruin that for you.” There was something more to him that enraged Louis because he just could not understand. He shook his head.

“Did you really think that you mean that little to me, Haz? I’m so happy for you. I would’ve loved to have seen you get this ribbon,” he said, dangling the piece of blue cloth in the chilling air. A deadly breeze brushed them, making the ribbon dance frantically, making Louis’s body uncomfortably numb.

“We should get out of here,” Harry said, sensing Louis’s pain, which he attempted and failed to disguise. He sat up from the swing set, an action followed by a loud screeching sound that made the nerves on both of their backs crawl uncomfortably. Harry guided Louis by the shoulder out of their spot, and they walked in silence and they walked in sync through the city.

They ended up in some café that was, luckily, still open this late. Louis had called Anne, had told her that she had Harry, and assured her not to worry. Louis ordered tea for the two of them, though Harry hardly touched his cup. Instead, he kept looking at his thumbs, which were dancing around each other in an anxious fit. He had refused to talk to his mum; Louis had to lie and say that Harry was in the bathroom to keep him happy. He just… Louis didn’t understand what was eating at him. It seemed like a lot more than the neglect of his family – though, Louis knew all too well how painful that was. And Harry? He was an innocent soul – he was _his_ cute, young, naïve, innocent soul, and he hadn’t known anything but his parents’ love and admiration. Maybe, it could’ve been a lot for the curly haired boy to handle. Still, Louis didn’t rule out the idea that this was all something more.

He took a sip of his tea, growing tired of this silence. It was abnormal – he refused to let it live any longer. “So Harry,” Louis started. “Are ya _ever_ going to show me your photos?”

Harry looked up, finally, and met his eyes. His once tense face now relaxed. He took the handle of the cup between his two fingers and thumb and said, “Of course I am,” while bringing the edge of the cup to his lips. “They… they were actually inspired by you.”

Louis smiled. “By me? Oi, I’m honoured, Haz!” he laughed. “Also honoured by the fact that judges think I’m interesting enough to give me first place.” He smirked.

“They’re not of you, you twat,” Harry said, with a joking attitude. Louis feigned offense, but he was happy. Harry was making fun, and it felt normal. “I said they were _inspired_ by you. Mainly, by how messy you keep your room. And one of the trees we used to climb when we were younger.”

Louis squinted. “You expect me to believe that you won first place by taking photos of my dirty socks and a tree?”

“I don’t need you to believe me. I have proof!” Harry dangled the blue ribbon in the air with a playful smile on his lips.

“A pathetic piece of proof, that is,” Louis noted, snatching the ribbon from Harry’s hand. His tone turned more serious, though it was still light, as he said once more, “I really am proud of your, Harry.”

“Thank you, Lou. That means a lot.” Harry smiled inwardly, and Louis wondered… But then his phone buzzed in his pocket. Harry’s eyes narrowed at Louis’ side as he reached into his pocket and checked his cell. It was Eleanor, texting him to see if he was coming back. Harry gave him a quizzical look, and Louis explained to him what happened before Anne had called – El and Louis talking on her couch; El and Louis making out on her couch; El and Louis taking off clothes on her couch – and Harry’s face once again became illegible and closed off.

“You should go back to her,” Harry said vacantly. “I didn’t want to ruin your night in the first place, and now I have.”

“You haven’t done anything of the sort.”

“I’ll go home,” Harry insisted.

“Do you _want_ to go home?” Louis knew Harry’s tone of voice – that hidden plea within it.

“I don’t want to keep you from your… _fun_.”

“Do you want to stay over, then? Da won’t mind.”

“No. I’ll go home.”

Harry ended up not going home; Louis ended up not going back to Eleanor’s.  They quietly made their way into Louis’ father’s house, where Mark Tomlinson had passed out on the couch with an empty bottle of beer somehow dangling between his two fingers over even more bottles and their television, set to the local news, lit the dark room dimly. Harry watched as Louis cleaned up the bottles on the floor and cover his father with a blanket. It was all so uniform, but Harry wasn’t surprised by that. He was well aware that this is what Louis came home to on a regular basis. But Harry did not say anything, in fear of cursing the silent darkness, and only watched in an atrabilious haze. Then, the two boys made their way to Louis’ bedroom, where they naturally got comfortable on his bed.

Louis’ room was small. The walls were painted an off white colour. His full sized bed fit perfectly the horizontal wall against the window, which opposed the wall with the door, and there was a thin wooden table that stretched along the vertical, placed by the head of the bed, where Louis kept his backpack and football cleats. There was also a small electric fan that Louis had set towards the bed. By the door, there was a tall lamp with three protruding heads of lights, which were the only lights that Louis ever turned on, despite the ceiling light overhead. And on the wall of the door, there was this shelf-drawer hybrid apparatus where Louis kept the books he didn’t read and his clothes.

It was interesting though – his room was clean. _Too clean_ , Harry noted, for he knew what he was talking about. His expertise on the matter landed him first place in a photo competition.

“I see you’ve picked up my models,” Harry joked. Louis laughed in response as he kicked off his shoes, which projected through the air and hit the closed door with a loud _thud_. Then, Harry propped himself up on his elbows to watch as Louis paced around his room, rearranging some things around the room. Was that a box of condoms? _Oh_. Harry couldn’t deny the pang in his chest upon the realization – and he scolded himself for his moment of naivety. But… what else could he have done?

“Will Eleanor mind that you’re not with her?” Harry said after a few moments passed.

“Probably.” Then, Louis threw some pillows onto the ground. “I’ll take the floor.”

“No, Lou…” –

“Come on, Harry? How long have you known me? Do I _ever_ care?” Louis said.

“No, but…”

“Then, _stop._ Or else I’ll ask what’s actually bugging you, and I know you; I know it’s not just your parents missing you win.”

Harry froze; he didn’t dare say more. Louis had him, had pressed the right button to win this one – though it did irk him that he didn’t know the details. He shook his head disapprovingly and finished making the blankets on the floor. When he settled on an arrangement, he stared down at his work. “You know what would be really fun?” he said. “A fort.”

“You are brilliant, you are,” Harry laughed, tossing more pillows from the bed and to the floor. Any previous tension had suddenly eased as the younger boy threw himself onto the fluffy pile. Louis began micromanaging, telling him where to place everything because _“This has to be perfect, Harold”_ and it took them a few miserable tries, but they finally, _finally,_ got the damned thing to stay up.

So there they were, two teenagers, hiding in their own security as if they were children… exactly like when they were children…and for a moment, everything felt so innocent, so familiar, so safe.

But, of course, that wasn’t really the case – at least, not for Harry. As he sat in the darkness, in the heat of the blankets that encased them, with _him_ so close… Harry couldn’t take it. For a microsecond, he had felt the feeling he had grown up with alongside his best friend. For a microsecond, he had felt innocent, familiar, safe. But it didn’t last as those damned little demons in his stomach began to flutter under the guise of cute butterflies, and there was nothing cute about these feelings he had. These horrible, terrible, wretchedly beautiful feelings he had tried to kill, yet they would not die.

“Haz,” Louis whispered loudly. “You’re breathing on me.” His voice was inward and childish. Then, Harry felt a poke on his side, and he squirmed.

“You’re an idiot, Louis,” Harry whispered back.

“You should grow your hair out,” Louis replied. In the dim light, Harry saw Louis reach over and mess with the brown curls on his head.

“Yeah?” Harry laughed.

“I’m serious, Harold! I think it would look good. Plus, you’d have that cute, sensitive, artistic vibe going on, and pair that with your promising career as a photographer and you’ll be catching the attention of all the girls. I promise you. You’ll get anyone you’d like with long hair.”

“Right.” Harry shifted uncomfortably. “It’s getting hot, yeah?”

Louis sighed. “Yeah. Let’s get out before we suffocate.” He sounded honest-to-God disappointed by the fact. He climbed out of the fort and reached to turn on the small electric fan. However, as Harry went to do the same, he was greeted with a pillow to the face.

Harry squinted in Louis’ direction. The arse had a pillow in his hands, hidden behind his back, and was smirking like crazy. “Really?” Harry questioned. “You want to play _that_ game?” Louis’ grin grew wider, quickly diminished by a small pillow to his eye.

This went on for minutes, the two boys just cursing and laughing at hitting each other until all the stuffing in the pillows were displaced within the seams and they had resulted in wrestling on Louis’ bed. Finally, Louis had Harry pinned under him. “Apologize!”

“For what? You hit me first!” Harry exclaimed, struggling to get out from his hold.

Louis hit him with another pillow. “I _said…_ ”

“Never!” Harry yelled as he reached up from underneath him and smacked his cheek. Louis was stunned silent; his jaw dropped. Harry couldn’t help but laugh. He said, or tried to say, in a dramatic soap opera way, “Now kiss me, you fool!”

What he didn’t expect though was Louis’ face aiming straight for Harry’s neck. His head sort of burrowed into his nape whilst his hands attacked Harry’s abdomen, and the latter was throwing a fit; he couldn’t breathe. “Truce!” he called out when he could. “Truce!” he repeated.

Louis propped himself up, a smug look on his face. Harry, defeated, sunk into the bed. Each breath he took was heavy, as if he had just run a marathon or something of the sort. It didn’t help his pacing heart that Louis was still, in some way, straddling him. It didn’t help that Louis was watching him very intensely, and those green eyes of him were sharp enough to pierce silver. “There,” Louis said finally. “Are you feeling better?”

Harry’s ears perked. “Meaning?”

“You’ve been weird all night,” Louis said. “Did this help?” Harry’s face became unreadable again, yet he replied with a ‘yes’. Louis was sceptic but he nodded anyway. “That’s good,” he said.

He didn’t stop searching Harry’s facial expression though. Harry tried to shift out of his hold, but Louis didn’t budge, lost in his own thought. Harry, too, was lost in thought. He kept thinking of the moment that led him here, to this irrevocably beautiful agony of his while he watched an equally beautiful and agonizing man… but no. He couldn’t. He couldn’t, he shouldn’t, he _wouldn’t_ do this to himself. So he tried once more to wiggle out of Louis’ unbreakable pin on him. Harry was growing more and more uncomfortable with the moment and with the way Louis was scrutinizing him; he had to push him off in order to cause any change and break his little haze. Then suddenly, Harry was curling up against the wall, and Louis was just sitting there, shocked. “Haz…” he said softly.

“We should go to bed,” Harry said. Louis nodded. He climbed off the bed and tossed Harry a couple of pillows and a blanket from the floor.


	3. Wild 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part One (continued)
> 
> From when everything is good to when everything isn't.
> 
> This time, with implications of Elounor sex. Ew.

~*~

“So what happened next?” Niall asked. The two boys were hanging out in Harry’s bedroom. Textbooks were laying across the bed, and assignments were scattered across the floor. Niall sat at Harry’s desk, spinning the chair beneath him, while Harry sat, knees crossed, on the floor. He was looking over his maths homework with a tensed brow, but upon hearing the Irish boy’s question, Harry looked up, threw the sheet of paper in the air, and rested his back against his wall in frustration.

It had been about a week since the night of Harry’s photography competition and the night he had stayed over at Louis’. He remembered that morning after, where he performed something way to similar to a walk of shame home while Louis was in the shower. And then, when he got home, he was greeted with the morning rush of his family: His mother cooking breakfast, his father cursing the tele for God knows what whilst parading through the house in his wife beater, Gem sluggishly moving about like a zombie. Yes, it was definitely a Sunday. There had been no mention of the competition, or even the very fact that Harry bailed for a few hours, as Anne forced beans and toast down his throat.

“Next? We went to bed,” Harry said, but his answer didn’t satisfy. “Or, we turned the lights off, and he started to snore, and I just stayed awake until dawn. The next morning, I walked home, and I haven’t spoken to him since.”

“Well, fuck, mate,” Niall breathed. “Are you _ever_ going to tell him?”

“Tell my straight best friend that I’m in love with him?” Harry laughed at the ridiculousness. “I’d rather die.” Though Harry laughed, Niall breathed deeply and alarmingly.

Harry and Niall had known each other since about year seven. Niall had moved from Mullingar in the Republic of Ireland, and though he was a little older than Harry, they had many classes together. At first, they hardly spoke to each other. It wasn’t till maybe a couple of years ago that they got along really well. Since Louis was two years ahead of them and had his own friends in his year, it was nice to have Niall to talk to during school and whatnot.

It was actually a few months ago at a Leeds Festival, when Niall and Louis met, and Niall saw how Harry was with Louis – _so fond of him,_ as Niall had put it – that Harry started to realize his feelings.  It wasn’t that Niall had mentioned it, and then Harry suddenly began to develop it. It wasn’t that he was pressured into these feelings, or manipulated into feeling them. No, when Niall had asked Harry if he had feelings for Louis, it was almost like a light went off, because, despite not having realized it beforehand, he had instinctively nodded and replied with a _yes, yes I do._ He did have feelings for Louis. More than that, he loved him. And it hurt. It _fucking hurt_.

And so Niall became Harry’s confidant. He somehow morphed from this funny and immature blond that swore in every sentence to his helpful and understanding friend that still swore in every sentence. Harry would talk to him every time Louis breathed, it would seem, but Niall, bless his soul, hardly cared.

“You know, he told me that day that I could get any girl I wanted if I grew out my hair?” Harry laughed. “Don’t you see how funny that is? He probably knows me better than anyone on this Earth, and yet he doesn’t know I’m gay.”

“Harry…” Niall said hesitantly.

“I know what you’re gonna say. But don’t. It’s fine. It’s not like I can force him to love me back. And like I said, he’s straight. It is what it is,” Harry said.

“If you ask me, though, that’s not what ‘it’ is,” Niall sang. “Straight or not straight, that boy loves you too. If not the way you want, then as your best friend, as the boy you’ve known since you were in diapers. You should at least tell him you’re gay, don’t you think? Don’t you think he deserves that, at the very least?” he reasoned.

Harry sighed. He knew Niall was right; of course he was. He told him so. But how would that conversation go? What if… what if Louis leaves him? What if everything changes? He wasn’t ready for that. He wasn’t ready for anybody but Niall knowing. Not yet. “Can we just finish this?” Harry pleaded, gesturing to the many pieces of paper lying on the floor. “If I have to think one more second about my unrequited love, I swear I will implode.”

Niall pressed his lips into a thin line, but nodded. “Yeah, mate.” And, as their attentions turned towards maths its evil complexity, Harry thought about what Niall said. Should he tell Louis?

Not too far away from them (actually just down the street), Louis sat at his own desk in an imaginary silence. He was in jeans and a striped tee. His head, cushioned by his forearms, rested on the long table. He was hiding, in his own way, from his father, who was in the formal room, vomiting into a bucket. Mainly, because – and for what reason, God only knew – he refused to let Louis move him to the john. Louis tried so hard to ignore the loud agonizing sounds of his father, and for a few various moment in time, he was able to escape. But it was that awful majority, where he could hear curse words and bottles being smashed in an angry mixture of hate, guilt, and frustration, that Louis cringed and shook with his own doses of passionate hate and even more fatal fear.

He wanted Harry. As children, Louis would go to his best friend every time his father would start drinking. He would leave the house time after time when he would see Mark Tomlinson sitting on the couch, watching a bottle of whiskey or brandy or Tanqueray or whatever was on the menu that night with such a devout intensity and mumbling to himself incoherently. Even as recent as a few weeks ago, Louis walked to La Casa de Styles and distracted himself with Harry’s comforting presence until he figured his father was passed out on the couch. But, they hadn’t spoken since the night he had stayed over. He didn’t feel like going there was an option.

He dared to watch the clock. The digital display read _5:00 P.M._ This had been going on for twenty minutes. It wasn’t constant; sometimes How was his father still breathing? Tears betrayed his eyes, and he banged his desk with a fury. The small electric fan that sat on the table actually jumped in the air for maybe a millisecond, but thankfully it hadn’t been on. The hit had turned his hand raw, but it still didn’t satisfy Louis’ frustration. He jumped onto his bed and kicked a pillow.

By this point, he could no longer hear his father vomiting, but instead the television set had turned on. Louis sat up and left the safety of his bedroom to check on the status of his father. Leaving the room, he could hear movement throughout the house – the faucet turning on, the clinking of a glass to the countertops in the kitchen. Okay, so his father was still alive. At least there was that. Louis went out into the living room and saw his father hovering over the kitchen table. “Da?” Louis called out. “Are you feeling better?”

Mark choked down the rest of his glass of water and looked at his son. “Yeah,” was his only reply. His forehead creased, his eyes were closed, and his breathing was deep and uneasy. “I’ll just lie down for a moment, yeah?”

Louis nodded. “Do you need any help?” He asked, though he knew his father would shake his head in reply. Still, Louis watched his father hesitantly and alarmed; he was ready to be at his side the very second the older man may slip. And Mark was cautiously watching his feet as he slowly made each step, which broke Louis’ heart. He hated seeing his father so weak, so consumed by addiction, by this overwhelming curse. But his father successfully made his way into his own bedroom. Louis followed behind and, in spite of his father’s reluctance, helped the man to bed. When Louis saw his father’s breaths even out, he headed out of the room.

“I don’t deserve you, son,” Mark whispered just loud enough for Louis to hear. “And you deserve better than me.”

Louis looked back at his father. Underneath the bed sheets, his body shook. “No, Pops. You’re wrong.” He walked out of the room, closed the door behind him, and that was that.

That was the thing, though, wasn’t it? No matter how much he resented his father for all this shit he had to go through on a daily basis, Louis couldn’t help but love his father. For one, Mark was his _father._ He had played cars with him, and taught him to fly instead of walk, and loved him – the only catch to this fantasy was that Mark’s love for Louis couldn’t compare to his bleeding desire for another glass of wine or another shot of whiskey. But, it could have been a lot worse. At least Mark never abused him, and at least he never left him.

Louis could remember the exact day his father had told him that his mother was gone. He was eight years old, and they were in Lancaster for the weekend – one last hoorah before Mark let the reality of Louis’ new life sink in. He remembered his father’s exact words, too. “Some people in this world – well, they’re selfish,” Mark had explained. “Just remember, Louis, that no matter what, you are loved. You are wanted.” And he knew that it was true, despite his father’s lack of self-control.

Suddenly, he found himself at nine o’clock in the evening, lying in bed and staring into the void, and heard a vibration on the long table. He shifted, looked in its direction, and spent a good minute debating whether or not he should open it. And, of course, that’s what he decided to do. It was Eleanor, but you would think he’d be more excited by her text. She wanted him to come over; her parents were not home and most likely wouldn’t be home till later that night. Louis debated once more if he should answer the text or leave it be. But, of course, he answered the text with a simple _on my way_.

El answered the door almost before Louis had even rang, and she immediately pulled him inside. She wrapped her arms around his neck and looked up at him with her doe eyes. He had his hands just above her waist, and he was sort of looking down at the space between them with an awkward smile on his lips, but Eleanor hadn’t noticed. “Hey,” she said. Her voice was airy.

“Hey,” Louis laughed out, but before he could continue, El had stood up and pressed her lips onto his. Louis’ hand froze for a moment, stunned by her sudden forwardness, but then softened into the kiss. They broke away for a moment, just long enough for Eleanor to lead him up the staircase and to her bedroom.

It had to have been passed one in the morning. Eleanor’s head was on Louis bare chest, and she seemed to be asleep. _What did I do?_ Louis kept thinking. Shouldn’t he have been happy? Shouldn’t he have been ecstatic, actually? This had been the end goal for months, hasn’t it? So why did it feel so… weird? Then, the sound of the front door opening and slamming shut echoed through the walls, and Eleanor was startled awake. “What was that?” she asked with furrowed brows. She listened closely to the sounds of footsteps going up the stairs. “Shit,” she cursed. Eleanor turned to Louis with an apologetic yet urgent gaze. “You have to go,” she said.

Eleanor scrambled onto her feet, almost falling on the floor as she tried to grab all the clothes from the floor. Louis looked at her with a shocked expression as she handed him basically all the clothes from the floor in the lump…pile…thing. “You have to go!” she repeated, more urgently than last time. But it was more like a hiss. She gestured to the window.

“What?” he said. “You expect me to jump out your window into the freezing cold in nothing but my boxers?”

“ _Louis, please_ ,” she whispered. Louis rolled his eyes, tossing the pile of clothes out the window first, and then following suit. He landed in the bush in the front, which both cushioned his fall and also made a few gashes on his shoulders and back. He gathered the scattered articles of clothing, thinking to himself how _fucking unbelievable_ this was, but he didn’t hover or wait to but his clothes on. The gentleman he was, he knew that whichever one of her parents had come home would probably check outside to see what idiot had hit their landscaping and figured he’d save El the trouble of an explanation by running then and there. Into the cold, dead, November night. In his underwear.

Somewhere in the midst of all the _fun_ Louis was having, he managed to put on some of his clothes – his jeans, particularly, and his jumper, though he left it unzipped – while carrying the rest – or, his band tee and Eleanor’s panties – under his arm.  It didn’t take him too long, he figured, since he hadn’t developed hypothermia, and he quickly turned a corner onto his street. Once he did and was a few town houses in, he noticed the kitchen light on. _Fuck_ , he thought. Either his dad was awake and going to kill him, or he was awake and going to kill himself. Both thoughts plagued his mind, and both sent a chilling feeling up his spine – and it wasn’t the cold breeze that had made everything cling together uncomfortably.

He took a deep breath. His keys must’ve fallen out of his pocket and onto Eleanor’s floor somewhere. He cursed and made a mental not to ask her about it sometime later. In the meantime, he stood on his tip toes and reached above the door frame for a spare key. His fingers swept across the frame but he couldn’t feel a thing. He groaned in frustration and slapped the frame with his somewhat numb hand before he noticed the open door and Harry, staring blankly with a dropped jaw at Louis.

Particularly, Louis’ chest.

Not that Louis noticed that.

“Haz?” he asked. “What are you doing here? Where’s Dad?”

“I..um…he,” Harry stuttered, before shaking his head and shaking himself out of his haze. He then continued, “Mum. She told me to check up on you? Apparently Mark called her earlier, saying something about work. Niall had come over, and she had a doctor’s appointment or something.”

Louis looked at him curiously. “What happened at work?” He asked, though he could imagine a plethora of possibilities.

But Harry shrugged. “I don’t know. I came over, and he answered and told me that I could wait for you to come home. I wasn’t going to, but he looked like bloody murder, and I figured I’d stay and make sure everything was okay.” To this, Louis relaxed. Louis would hate the shame and embarrassment that came with anyone else seeing his father anything less than the illusion he presents himself, somehow, into the outside world. But with Harry, it was different; he’s seen the ups and the downs. With Harry, Louis didn’t feel a shame, he felt a strength, a comfort, or something synonymous to the feeling.

“Thanks, Harry.”

“But, um… Louis?” Harry said. “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”

Louis looked down, suddenly remembering the recent events that brought him to this moment, letting out a laugh of guilt. “Oh, this? Well, um…”

Then, Harry caught sight of what Louis carried under his arm. It was the Plain White T’s shirt Harry had given him for his seventeenth birthday and a few women’s clothes, including an obnoxiously red lace thong.

“You were with Eleanor?” Harry asked; he tried so hard to hide the hurt in his voice.

“Um… yeah.” Louis shrugged and scratched his head. He started heading inside and out of the freezing night. “Do you want something?” He tried to change the subject. “Tea? Coffee? Juice?”

Harry’s lips pressed together tightly, and he tried so hard to hide his dismay. But whether or not he was successful, he wouldn’t know because if Louis had noticed anything, he hadn’t said a word. Harry closed the front door and followed Louis into the kitchen. Louis was filling the kettle up with water and black tea bags and then placing it on the stove. Louis looked up from the stove and at Harry, waiting. “Oh,” Harry said. “No. I’m good.”

“Okay. As for me… you know I can’t sleep without a cup of tea.”

“Which makes no bloody sense. That stuff has a decent load of caffeine.”

Louis shrugged. “I can’t help it.” The tea began to boil, and that sound filled the silence between them. “So, Haz, did you want to tell me something?”

“Hmm?”

“I don’t know. You just have that look. Like you have something to tell me.”

Should he? Should he do it – then and there, tell his best friend of his feelings? Say those three words that could change everything for the worse? Say those three words that could everything for the better? Did he have what it took to stand in front of one of the most beautiful men on this bloody hell of an earth and confess?

“No,” Harry said finally. “I don’t have anything to say.” Instead, he shrivelled into his self, feeling this terrible pain hit his stomach. His eyes shifted to the messy pile of clothes that Louis had subconsciously placed on the kitchen counter, and they narrowed on the red thong. He thought, _I have something to say, but I won’t, and maybe I never should._

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: One, I am not from, nor have I been, to the UK. I am American, so don't hate me for my obstruction to British culture or way of speaking. It's definitely not intentional, and I did my research, and tried to portray everything as accurately as I possibly could. But I'm not perfect. Sue me. Two, this is based off of Troye Sivan's three part music video series, Blue Neighbourhood. I am in no way affiliated with Troye, nor am I affiliated with One Direction. Three, the tags are subject to change. I'm still planning the story out. Which means, this story could end either happy or sad. You've been warned.
> 
> This story is split into three parts - Part One: Wild, Part Two: Fools, and Part Three: Talk Me Down. Each part will have multiple updates, most likely. If the format gets too confusing and the amount of updates is too overwhelming, then I'll probably re-upload this story.
> 
> And if you've read this far into my notes (thank you), don't worry. Chapters are going to be a lot longer than this!


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